


Dancing past the point of no return

by TotemundTabu



Series: 30 THROBB SMUTS [21]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Biting, Blow Jobs, Cheating, Co-workers, Dirty Talk, Dom Robb Stark, Frottage, Infidelity, M/M, Marking, Object Insertion, Office Sex, Quote Challenge, Rimming, Spanking, Sub Theon Greyjoy, Top Robb Stark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2019-04-03 20:38:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14004285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TotemundTabu/pseuds/TotemundTabu
Summary: For the prompt : Married Theon and Homewrecker Robb with some past throbb





	Dancing past the point of no return

**Author's Note:**

> For the tumblr prompt! So thank you to Ifth for requesting this one!  
> The song is Magnets by Disclosure ft. Lorde.  
> All the quotes are by that damn hunk of Oscar Wilde :D

The first time it happens, Robb smiles into the kiss and rolls his hips against Theon's crotch, inviting him closer. Their mouths ache, burning for each other, and they devour their tastes, while their hard cocks rub through the fabric of pants.

“Just this once.”, Theon breathes heavily, grunting on the verge of Robb's lips.

Robb's eyes are closed and he moans, nodding.

It was not just that once.

 

* * *

 

 

**Dancing past the point of no return**

 

* * *

 

 

_You and that girl? She your girlfriend? Face from heaven?_

_Bet the world she don't know: pretty girls don't know the things that I know._

_Walk my way, I'll share the things that she won't …_

 

* * *

 

 

The first time Robb sees him is in the office, as he drops a pile of paperwork on his desk.

“I want this ready in an hour. We're putting out the press release in three.”, he says, flatly.

Robb blinks, bewitched, his brain pouring over him the most vulgarly excessive amount of hormones he has experienced since the age of fifteen when he was jerking off to anything that moved. The man in front of him looks like Adonis just decided to drop mythology and reincarnate himself in the real world for the sole purpose of tormenting him: he has a lean frame, beautifully wide shoulders, nice sharp hips and – sweet cruelty of fate – a bubble butt so pretty that no straight guy should be authorized to have it. He keeps his black hair long, but tied into a ponytail, and he is wearing squared, thin frames – Robb thinks his eyes are a greyish blue but he doesn’t manage to check well – and his lips are so big and round that Robb has to make a huge effort not to imagine them around his cock, sucking him.

The man raises an eyebrow, sighing, then lets out a cocky smirk.

“Did you get here through backing?”

Robb needs a moment to not think about some other kind of backing.

He gulps down, “No, sir, I was the best in my course.”

“Then. - the man's voice turns mellifluous and poisonous all together, the pitch mocking, the smirk cockier – How about you work when your superior tells you to? Are you waiting for a lump of sugar?”

Robb's eyes drop on his lips again. 

He daydreams of shutting him up by fucking that mouth until it’s sore.

“Immediately.” 

“Good.”

Robb stares at his ass as he is leaving and thinks, for the first time, about slamming that man on a desk and driving through him until that smirk melts into a messy and lewd gaping mouth filled just by obscene moans.

That's Theon Greyjoy. And Robb learns his name quickly.

 

*

 

The next thing he learns about Theon is his fame: absolute flirt, manwhore with no remorse, he plays cocky and lewd with every pretty woman in the agency, no matter the age or the status. And Robb hates it.

And he wishes he could understand what goes through Theon's mind, because with him, Theon lingers between flirting and punishing, cutting coldness and smouldering heat.

He drives him mad.

“Correct better. - a smirk, a wink, he throws some papers on his desk, his eyes gleaming – Your work is _sloppy_.”

And it's something about the way Theon says it that makes Robb's blood stir and his nerves alight.

It's like he's speaking about make outs or dripping come, there is a thickness, a density to how the word “sloppy” rolls off his tongue and how hot it feels as it reaches Robb's ears.

“Yes.”, Robb says, smiling, trying to conceal how much he'd sink into him while pulling his hair.

Theon's glance lingers on him, brushes on Robb's hands, then his neck, and Theon sucks his lips slowly, dragging his teeth along the lower one. His eyes shine in pure heat.

He wants him too.

Robb swallows dryly and heavily, wondering if he should say something, anything.

“I expect you to prepare the info-graphics for tomorrow’s reunion. - Theon half-orders then, tense, clearly nervous, as if he got burnt by electricity – If you're able to, even.”

Robb's arousal gets stained with anger, frustration runs him blind.

He can see Theon's Adam’s apple jump, his tongue peeking on the verge on his lips and then disappearing into his mouth again, his hand trembling slightly. 

“I think I'll surprise you this time.”

Theon chuckles, smirks and winks, “I like surprises. - then he seems to mock him again – But I doubt you will be able to.”

Robb lets out a small laugh.

“It's a bet then.”

Theon smiles, arching his brows before leaving the room, and while he does, Robb stares at his soft ass again, brushed too well by the mellifluous fabric of his pants.

He wants to tear it apart.

He wants to sink in him and pound and pour with feverish undertow and thrusts, feeling him shiver and moan and whine under him, around him, sheathing him.

Like a wolf in heat.

Rutting into him.

He can imagine his naked back, or pulling up his face, twisting his neck just slightly, while he drives his cock through him, pressing his bottom lip down, pushing his hands into his mouth, and driving stronger, turning him into a melting and unravelling hot mess of wanton moans.

Robb feels his stomach clench as he remains alone in the office and, staring down under his desk, sees his pants tense in a needy, wide tent.

 

*

 

After two months of work, he is still daydreaming about Theon Greyjoy bending under his desk and sucking him off or of bending him over it, biting his neck from behind, rubbing his cock between his full ass cheeks.

He forces himself to be professional, to be friendly, to not show it.

But Theon knows.

And Robb knows he does.

It's in the way Theon licks or sucks his lips slowly only when Robb is staring, in the way he plays with the rim of coffee cups when Robb is glancing at him, in the way their looks cross and lock and both their stomachs get rigid.

It's in the way he says “Stark” before a task, so hot, so soft – silk of fire.

They both feel the fever, and it will turn to frenzy.

Like a river is bound to break its dam.

And Robb feels the rope of tension pull – like a violin chord just vibrating before it’s about to snap.

And Robb knows the recoil will whip his hand, but he throws himself in the delight of the feeling.

Theon's eyes linger on him every day and every day he finds a shallower excuse to talk to Robb, to rub his shoulder, to glance at his groin.

“I need an opinion about this.”

“Check this spelling.”

“My coffee machine makes two at once. Get the other one.”

“I'll stay here until you finish.”

And he brushes Robb’s hand when handing him the coffee cup or papers. And he looks at the laptop from behind him, his breath almost caressing Robb's neck, his hand claiming the backrest. And his voice seems to get wetter and denser and sweeter every time after a long silence in which Robb feels his eyes over him.

After two months of work, he's more and more sure he should say something.

Or try.

But how do you try and suggest something like that? They’re colleagues and he's the newest employee and those days pass from boredom to the haze of when he's around and the haste of his head spinning and his skin burning with pins and needles he can't extinguish.

And he wants to try, he does.

And he thinks about it sometimes, to just move a hand to Theon's hip, to just chuckle and ask “So, want drinks?” or just pour each other down in the toilet. 

He is on his mind insistently, like a pleasure to scratch, like a hole to feed.

And he thinks maybe, just maybe, it's a mix of messed up truths, perceptions heating up over nothing, maybe it's just his fear of being alone.

But then, sometimes, when he feels Theon's eyes linger on the way his shirt fits inside his belt, he's sure Theon is thinking about undoing it for him.

Maybe it's just sex. Maybe it could be just one time, he thinks, and then it would be fine.

 

*

 

Robb laughs, a bit too loud, feeling tipsy. He snorts and the cute secretary of the thirteenth floor places a hand on his arm, caressing it slowly.

If he were into women, he'd consider it. He still does, for a second, because he's tired of feeling stupid and absurd and tied to the void and to glances.

But his eyes travel across the room to meet Theon – annoyingly striking in an Armani suit that surely costs more than Robb could ever afford, black like his hair, woven in night and petroleum, and a thistle shirt that Robb is half-sure is silk for real.

“He dresses like a doll.”, he mumbles, under his breath, sour.

The secretary, was her name Jeyne?, laughs and says she finds it nice when a man takes care of his appearance. And Robb would like to tell her he does too, but he's horny and bitter and can’t complain.

Theon's hips look particularly tempting, as he sways lightly from one client to the other with that perpetual cocky, smug grin, like he is a demon who will buy everyone's soul.

And, god, Robb knows he likes that smirk.

He feels that smirk down in his crotch and blood.

When Theon looks towards him, though, the smirk trembles, almost extinguishes, before rising again sharper. And he moves towards Robb, grabbing two glasses on his way.

He gives the second to Jeyne, but looks right into Robb's eyes.

“Here.”

Robb's tongue runs over his mouth's corner for a second and he sees Theon's pupils dilating, blown in desire, staring at it. Jeyne takes the glass with a little laugh.

Theon doesn't even turn towards her.

“Are you having fun?”

Robb smiles and looks at him, almost amused, but trying to keep a certain charm, “Well, nobody’s died yet, so it's what I would call a PR success.”

Theon laughs.

Not a chuckle, not a giggle.

A laugh.

And his eyes run from Robb's eyes to his chest and then slowly to his crotch – he cocks a brow up and then returns to look at Robb's face.

His lips look sharp and full. And wet.

“We’ve decided to keep the human sacrifices for the spring. - he jokes back, his voice a bit too dark and too arousing – Nothing says a good old-fashioned “new season” just as much, as Stravinsky knew.”

“Well, - Robb smiles – You didn't strike me as a traditionalist.”

Theon smirks, “Oh, I love traditions... - his lips almost curl into a heart – Especially here in America, they make people so... reliable. - his eyelids flutter for a second only – Or predictable, if we prefer.”

Robb shakes his head, “American traditions? - he shrugs, allowing his Irish accent to come out, and sees how pleased Theon is, as it clashes against his posh British, all-clean-cut one – Like?”

Theon sips from his glass of gin and tonic.

“The youth... it has been going on now for three hundred years.”, he curls his lips and raises his eyebrows.

Robb frowns, but he smiles, intrigued.

“A Woman of No Importance?”

Theon chuckles, nodding sideways and biting his bottom lip outrageously and obscenely slow. “Didn't pin point you as a Wilde fan.”

“Pray! I'm Irish.”

Theon seems pleased, “I can't quote all the Scottish poets, though.”

“You're... Scottish? With that accent?”

“I need these people to understand me when I talk.”

“Fair enough. - Robb smiles, smitten, eyes shining – But I personally am more fond of Wilde’s poetry than the plays.” 

Theon scoffs, “Ow, of course you are. - his voice is so amused and cutting that Robb almost craves to shut him up in a moment – You do look quite the type.”

Robb moves slightly closer, his eyes running, smouldering, over Theon's body, consuming the lines of the suit, the cut around the wrists, the way his neck is hidden by his soft hair.

“You prefer witty lines?”

“Of course. - Theon smirks – They allow me to seem even more brilliant with minimum effort. - then he fakes surprise – Oh, and, of course, they're quite beautiful.”

“Should I ask your favourite?”

“I can resist everything, except temptation.”

Theon's glance lingers on Robb's swollen, pink lips.

“Lady Windermere's Fan? - Robb raises an eyebrow – I expected something less... over-picked.”

Theon's eyes gleam.

And Robb understands he has been played and lied to.

And he should feel angry, but he just feels charmed.

“The supreme vice is shallowness.”, he almost whispers, winking, and moves away, going beyond them, beyond the room, towards the elevators.

Robb waits two minutes and twenty seconds before following him.

He glances at the monitor saying which floor the elevator stopped on last and retypes it in.

When the doors open again, he finds in front of himself Theon Greyjoy, an almost empty glass in one hand, the other at his neck, loosing up his black tie, slowly. He has a crooked eyebrow and a lopsided smirk. He's temptation itself.

“I can't believe you made me wait so long.”

 

*

 

The office bathes in the scorching darkness of the night – the only light coming from the outside, from the wide windows the artificial city lights glow, flare and lustre, blue and pink, but can't turn the heated lust away.

It feels too good to feel real.

And Robb has his eyes closed, his mouth open and kisses Theon deeply, their tongues enmeshing and entwining, searching for each other’s taste, for the thick unloseable taste of spiralling fever. He pushes Theon on the desk and places himself between his legs, towering him, before catching his lips again.

Theon moans into the kiss, runs his hands through the curls, drags his nails on the shirt, as he wreathes under Robb’s touch.

He rocks his hips, as to frot their cocks together.

He's magnetic.

He folds the universe with his glance.

And his voice is smouldering and soothing, like a branding iron and the euphoria that follows it.

Robb smiles into the kiss and rolls his hips against Theon's crotch, inviting him closer. Their mouths ache, burning for each other, and they devour their tastes, while their hard cocks rub through the fabric of the pants.

“Just this once.”, Theon breathes heavily, grunting on the verge of Robb's lips.

Robb's eyes are closed and he moans, nodding.

“Just this once.”, he confirms, lying.

Theon arches, his hips tremble and writhe.

He's perfect.

Robb feels hungry for him, eager in all the wrong ways, he sucks his lips and then sinks his teeth into the lagoon between Theon's neck and shoulder, sucks and torments, bruising it while Theon bites his own hand to muffle the lewd sounds that are dripping, spilling, pouring out of his mouth obscenely.

One of Robb's hands pulls Theon's pants down, cups his dick through the thin layer of his briefs, giving it a warm squeeze.

Theon whines and moans, biting into Robb's shoulder, and his eyes fill with blissful tears.

Robb's tongue licks Theon's neck, his lips suck the tenderest muscles, they envelope the earlobe, while his other hand pulls Theon's shirt open, making the buttons fly off.

Theon tries to protest, “It's a G-” but is shut up by Robb's mouth, voraciously filling him.

The edge twitches, the brink swallows.

Theon rolls his eyes to the back of his skull, while his chest is exposed – the tie laying half undone on his panting skin, and Robb's maw finds his nipples and plays with them, lapping, teasing, sucking, before biting in.

Theon's hips roll and beg, as Robb squeezes his balls and starts jerking his cock hard.

Theon puts a hand in front of his mouth, his breath sounds almost like a wet and hoarse sob, his cock twitches desperately.

There’s electric sparks running down his skin every time Robb's tongue laps his nipple and his thumb runs over the slit of his cockhead.

He's a heating mess, he's melting.

And Robb loves it.

“Just this once.”, Theon repeats, panting, shivering, his cock throbbing, pleasure jolting through his hips.

Robb drags his fingers over Theon's chest, caresses the dark hair, then takes a nipple between his fingertips and twists it, while giving a strong squeeze on Theon's cock, wedging it, strangling his arousal through it.

Theon's mouth is a drenched pool of moans.

Robb raises an eyebrow, “You like it when it hurts a bit?”

Theon nods weakly, quickly, desperately, his dick's head leaking precome.

Robb kisses his nipple, still pulsing in pain and shivers, and whispers over it, “ _How sloppy_ .”

 

*

 

The next time it happens, Theon is heading to the toilet, fakely absent-minded.

His hair is left free today to hide the bitemarks on his neck, and he's wearing a black turtleneck. He has put on more perfume than usual, but his stubble is more visible.

Robb closes the word file on his laptop and follows him to the bathroom, checking that nobody pays attention to him, and when in there, Theon turns to him and smirks.

“Smart boy.”

Robb smiles, almost laughs, bites his bottom lip and pushes Theon inside a stall, closing the door behind them quickly. His hand presses on Theon's chest, pinning him to the cold, mint green wall.

“You're so spoiled.”, Robb says, half grunting and half smiling, kissing Theon's earlobe and raising his turtleneck’s lower hem, passing his hands under it.

Theon chuckles darkly, “All charming people, I fancy, are spoiled.”

Then he pants, moans, as Robb twists his nipples and the words stagger in his mouth, his lips quivering, obscenely wet.

Robb raises his eyebrows and smiles. He pulls Theon's pants down and jerks his cock quickly.

“It is the secret of their attraction.”, he concludes the quote while lowering himself down, then letting his tongue out and licking Theon through the soft fabric of his underwear.

Theon whines, muffles a scream, his hips buckle, fucking his own briefs and craving, begging silently, for Robb's tongue.

Robb takes the head in, sucking it slowly, the cotton, drenched in precome, tastes salty in his mouth.

But Theon's moans taste sweeter now.

He nudges his face against the painfully erect shaft, as it pulses and jumps, and he teases it, smelling the musky, murky scent.

“You didn't shave this morning.”, he observes, moving his hand faster on Theon's aching erection.

Theon opens one eye for a moment, closing it again as another whined, blissful sob runs out of his mouth in a breathless murmur.

“Didn't have time.”, he groans, his voice thick and hoarse with arousal.

“Spent too much time masturbating?”

Theon doesn't reply, he just bites down on his lip.

Robb seems to glow, “Own. - he mocks, tenderly, rubbing the dick's tip with the palm of his hand, making Theon writhe and squirm like a virgin – Bet you couldn't stop, you kept humping the bed and stroking your cock, running late.”

Precome trickles slow from Theon's dickhead, dripping thin and needy.

“Did you think about me fucking you?”

Theon's eyes are burning embers.

Shame and desire press on his chest, sweltering, unforgettable.

“Shut up and do it.”

“Bossy. – a kiss on his dripping dick – From behind?”

Theon nods and then feels the bruising delight of Robb's hands moving him, twisting his arm behind his back, forcing him to balance and support himself only with one hand resting against the wall, while his ass is exposed.

Robb slaps the cheeks red, spanking hard, biting them. Theon arches his back, trembles, his legs turning to jelly, his bones melting in need.

He feels so empty he's sure he could faint when he's finally filled.

Robb leans against him, his erection hard and huge, pressing against Theon's naked ass still through the pants, and he speaks, his voice turbid and stormy.

“I'll ram you so hard you'll limp to your office.”

 

*

 

The third time, Theon's legs are shaken by shivers and his face is all red, his jaw almost dislocated from how hard he screams and moans. 

They are the last people in the office, in the dim, blue light of computer screens and the outside lamplights. 

Theon is on all fours on his desk.

Under his cock, over the fine ebony wood, a puddle of his own come.

Robb bathes the sleek and thick projector remote in it, before thrusting it inside Theon's gaping, twitching hole. Theon rolls his eyes back, suffocating the most vulgar moan, his ass moving towards the object, hungrily.

Robb drives it deeper, while his other hand grabs Theon by his cheeks, lifting his face slightly. And then slapping it.

Theon's cock jumps, a trail of come still pending from its head.

“You'd take just anything, wouldn't you?”

Theon pants, his voice reduces to a croak, “It's too small. - he pants – And you know it.”

Robb chuckles.

“Maybe I want you to ask for it nicely.”

Theon glares at him, but Robb starts pounding hard, driving the remote deeper and rougher, and Theon almost screams, feeling the damn shape hitting his prostate, sending him to insanity.

He cries, coming again.

And when Robb thrusts in with his cock, Theon calls his name once, twice, with every pound, every slam, harder, rougher, needier.

His nails claw the desk, his voice echoes in the empty office, and his skin turns alight.

When Robb puts a hand in his mouth to shut him up, Theon bites it, moaning against the skin and flesh, while Robb quickens his pace and aims cruelly to his sweet spot, over and over, making Theon spill with the lewdest, muffled mewl.

The fourth time inside the storage closet.

The fifth time Robb bends him over the fire escape stairs.

The sixth time Theon hides under the desk and sucks Robb, swallowing all of him greedily.

The seventh time, they don't repeat “Just this once” anymore, they are hiding in the bathroom, Robb's hands sweet and tight on Theon's wasp waist and Theon's legs and arms crossed around Robb's hips and neck, keeping him close, both of them working a rhythm, Robb driving his cock up and Theon fucking himself over it – their glances match, mix and melt, their lips lock as knuckles get white and hips frenetic.

The eighth time doesn't arrive: Theon moves back to the London office without notice.

 

*

 

Robb smiles at the new intern, handing them a glass of champagne with a courteous, cheerful tone, “You did a great job, congratulations.”

Loras Tyrell smiles, accepting the glass and looking around, “I should probably try to network a bit tonight. We have all the new clients here.”

Robb's eyes gleam in understanding.

“Of course. - he glances to the other side of the room – There is Governor Renly Baratheon, there, for example.”

Loras winks, “You know me too well.”

Robb scoffs, “You have a type. After some months, it's clear.”

Loras snickers, biting his lips, “He even came out, what else can I ask for?”

“Didn't he come out to get the democrats to vote for him?”, Robb asks, poorly hiding a little mischievous smile.

“I am no priest, I don't judge. - he mumbles – He's charming and I'm a sucker for a man with a political parlantine.”

“You just have a kink for giving blowjobs to people while they speak so you can hear their voice break from arousal.”, Robb observes, blunt from the alcohol.

Loras turns to him, laughing, “Did a tarantula bite you tonight?”

Robb shakes his head, “Sorry, last... last year, when we hosted this event, I –”

Loras' voice falters, “Theon Greyjoy.”

Robb blinks, shuddering, “How do you know?”

“He's coming over here.”

And he doesn't dare turn to check, he doesn’t dare hope, he doesn't dare give himself the right to dream.

Until he can feel him in the air.

It's his cologne, it's the charisma glimmering in the void, it's the way gravity all pulls and collides and forces you to turn your eyes towards him, as there, freshly packed in his last season Armani cobalt blue suit, so handsome it should be illegal, with a flute close to his lips, and his long, silky black hair held up in a bun, some locks falling on the side, slightly curling in a languid curve, is Theon Greyjoy.

Robb feels heat pooling in his stomach.

Theon smirks, coming to them. “Stark. Tyrell.”

Loras blinks for a moment before holding his hand, impressed, “It's an honour.”

“What a flatterer. - he turns to Robb, eyes gleaming – Is it an honour for you too?”

Robb's jaw clenches. Theon's smirk gets sharper at that, cockier.

“How come you're here, Greyjoy?”

“How unwelcoming. - he turns to Loras – Tyrell, why don't you go to Baratheon, I heard he wanted to get to know the brilliant mind behind our last campaign.”

When Loras leaves them, Theon smiles and looks at Robb longingly, his voice cracks slightly.

“Did you miss me?”

“What makes you think so?”

“Your voice is not nearly as cold as you think it is.”

And Theon is just too warm. Robb swallows down and looks at him, reluctantly, relentlessly, recklessly.

And he can feel Theon sink under his skin again.

Like a flame burning between his surface and his flesh.

It burns against his raw weakness, and he falls to him.

“You went away quite suddenly last time.”

Theon sucks his lips, his eyes veil in sadness, “I was not enthusiastic either.”

Robb's look lingers on the way Theon's fingers hold the cup, the way they keep it, then the fingers on the rim of the glass, the flute sitting inside the cheeks of his palm, the tremor and the bubbles rising to the surface to die.

He drives him mad.

Robb sucks his lips wet and swollen, “The lift is still the same.”

Theon smirks and heads towards it, his hips moving invitingly, his waist looking in need to be grabbed. He grins when the doors open and Robb enters with him.

He throws his hands around Robb's neck, spilling some of the champagne down his shirt, making him shiver. 

“Oops.”

“Oops, really? - Robb raises his eyebrows, puts a hand around Theon's stomach and pulls him closer – Did you miss me?”

Theon bites his lips and looks at him, elated and thrilled.

“You seem so eager, have you fallen in love with me?”

Robb doesn't reply.

He wants to think it's ridiculous, but the truth is he doesn't want to know.

He just wants to claim Theon.

And he knows only the childish way or the barbaric one to do so: writing your name on it or breaking it.

“Love is a sacrament that should be taken kneeling.”, he whispers on the edge of Theon's mouth, while Theon moans, arches his back. And their eyes meet and melt in heat again.

And he bows.

And he blows. 

 

*

 

Theon is laying procumbent over the desk, his knuckles white, his hands holding onto the plastic, as he struggles to avoid screaming.

Robb's tongue is deep inside his ass, warm and wet, darting in.

He can feel Robb's beard tickling his thighs, his soft lips against him pucker – sandpaper and silk, torment and ecstasy. He likes the teasing, he loves the relief.

And Robb's tongue feels huge and needed.

And he has missed it for so long, he can't help but fuck himself, moving against it, craving the way it leaps inside him.

Theon bites his lips, suffocates moans, but his hips squirm and his hole twitches, he's a trembling mess and Robb smirks against him.

Robb's hands then move to Theon's hips and squeeze them, pull them close, bruise them purple and loved. 

Theon's voice comes out, crystal and fire, when Robb's hand spanks him.

Tears pool in Theon's eyes with shame.

“I missed the way your ass bounces.”, Robb confesses, his hot breath tickling Theon's skin.

“Jerk...”, Theon chokes out, then bites his tongue.

Robb's fingers are inside him, massaging his prostate, turning him to molten ruins and melted embers.

“I missed something else more, though.”

“Robb, for fucks sak...”

Four fingers drill into his sweet spot and Theon's voice whirlpools into a hot, low, groan, and when Robb presses again, it twists high in the lewdest moan.

Theon's cock jumps, twitches, precome leaks down on the office floor, and Robb rubs the head harshly, making Theon scream and whine.

Theon bites his arm, rolls his eyes up and he's not sure anymore from where he’s coming, from his ass, as Robb pushes his cock in, wider and more furious than he remembered him to be, or his cock being stroked raw and hard. 

But, regardless, he comes, spilling all over, screaming like a schoolgirl.

His knees buckle, his breath is just a pant, and Robb bends closer to him, laying against his back, still in, hard and ready to thrust and break.

“The vilest deeds like poison weeds, - he whispers to him, with a dark chuckle, before pushing into Theon's oversensitive, overwhelmed, red flesh, making him moan – … bloom well in prison air.”

Theon's hands cling onto the desk.

His ass burns, blissfully torn.

And he moves against Robb, searching for him, desperate and defeated.

 

*

 

Robb throws the condom in a tissue, before slamming it in the bin. Theon is still on the desk, breathless, his own come dripping down, but he misses Robb's.

He glances at him and finds him staring back.

Angered and entendered all the same.

What a fool he is. What fools they both are.

“The Ballad of Reading Gaol.”, Theon whispers, smirking slightly, panting.

Robb nods, then clacks his tongue against his palate, “His correspondence with George Ives.”

Theon smiles, “I’ve missed our game.”

“Which one?”, Robb asks, buttoning his pants and fixing his double vest.

“Both. - Theon admits, then glances at Robb's chest – You should try suspenders.”

“Aren't they a tad bit too dorky?”

Theon scoffs, “Not if you look like Clark Kent.”

“Well, that's lower than Oscar, that's for sure. - Robb observes, amused – You don't play your quote trivia in London?”

Theon breathes in.

He licks his lips slowly.

Hearts of glass shards break easily. And his breath feels like a hammer in his own lungs.

“My wife does not appreciate them.”

Robb's hands stop mid-movement.

His fingertips tremble. The buttons scald them. The air daggers them.

Robb's voice sounds round with tears he doesn't let out and choked with a bitter laugh he can't free.

“You’ve married.”

Theon's chest shivers, his lips quiver. His voice is lemon and wax.

“So it seems.”

Robb snorts, metallic, “How charming.”

“Do you have a smoke?”

Robb blinks, outraged, scoffs and stares at him in bewildered contempt, “ _Do I have a smoke?_ ”

Theon rolls his eyes and looks away, half-ashamed, half-annoyed.

“Do you see someone else in this room?”

“For sure not your wedding ring.”

“I don't wear it.”

“I wonder why.”, Robb sarcasms out, finishing with his vest and searching for his jacket on the floor.

“Look. - Theon turns, his eyes seem lucid, but Robb forces himself not to spare pity – It's not like you think.”

“Well, until now I think you're a cheating bastard, so I'm sort of guessing it's exactly like that.”

“...fine, that part it is, but-”

“But what. - Robb scoffs, snapping – And don't try to blame this on being bi or in the closet, I'm both and I don't have a wife at home.”

Theon sits up, his eyes seem too sad and they cut through Robb's defences like a knife in butter.

“I always fucked around before marrying, she knows that.”

Robb squints his eyes, acidic, “Yeah, it's the after marrying part that is kind of a terrible thing.”

Theon groans and sighs, exasperated, “That was just with you, though.”

“Oh, whoa, I'm pretty sure it still counts.”

“Why do you care? - Theon shakes his head, shrugging it off as if the whole matter were snow on his shoulders – It's not like I'm cheating on you.”

“You’ve involved me.”

“Nor are you the one cheating.”, he adds.

Robb blinks, “Are you even listening? - he shouts – You’ve involved me, now I'm guilty too.”

Theon shrugs, “Only if you do it again, while knowing.”

Robb gulps down, labouring, because the knot in his Adam's apple feels hard and unbearable, like lead and concrete.

That's the problem: he is not sure how to stop.

And now he has no excuse.

 

*

 

“I have two tickets for the Rite of Spring.”

Robb raises his eyes from the laptop and sees Theon leaning on the doorstep of his office, smirking. Days have passed, and he tried to avoid him.

Failing, of course, magisterially.

Five days in office and four of them with sex in the bathroom or in the stationary closet. How fitting.

“I'm not huge on Stravinsky. - he mumbles, forcing himself not to look at him – Don't you have a wife to go with?”

“You'd be huge on every occasion. - Theon mumbles, flattering, looking around to make sure nobody is staring, as he enters the office and closes the door behind himself – Plus, I thought it would be kind of romantic.”

“Romantic?”, Robb cocks a brow, perplexed.

Theon looks as if he got burnt, but he clears his voice quickly and smiles, “She hates ballet.”

“How inconvenient. - Robb snickers, passive-aggressive – If I didn't know you better, I'd think you're not completely satisfied in your marriage, which you didn't inform me of.”

“It was a mistake, ok? - Theon groans, crosses his arms – Are you going to make me pay all my life for it?”

“Kinda?”

Theon moves to Robb's chair and twirls it around, forcing Robb’s legs away from the desk, exposed, and he places himself above them.

“What if I ride you?”

Robb almost chuckles, but desires glimmers low in his eyes, and he can't hide his arousal, “It's office hours.”

“The door is closed. - he shrugs – Nobody will enter without knocking. - his eyes gleam, wicked – And in case I'll just go under the desk and keep sucking you until they go away.”

Robb clenches his jaw and his dimples shine hollow and tempting, Theon loves how tense his muscles look. He wants to wipe off that serious expression from Robb's face.

How righteous he is.

He pulls Robb's tie, like a leash, raising his eyebrows, and Robb bites his bottom lip and grunts, untamed eyes glaring.

Theon knows if Robb could, he would vandalize his ass right then.

And he would let him, in all honesty.

He loves the feeling of when it’s just too much and his flesh is raw and sore and yet it still pulses and tingles in need.

Desire pulses in him for hours after he's been broken.

And frustration just makes him hungrier the following day.

He rubs his knee against the damp, hard tent erecting in Robb's suit pants. And he chuckles, victorious, elated.

“They’re good seats... - he whispers, warmly, wetly – A beautiful private balcony box.”

Robb suffocates a grunt, feeling his cock betraying him, hardening, thunderously urging from the boxers and pulling up his trousers, painfully needy.

Theon's knee is the perfect mix of hard and soft and against his shaft and balls it feels like heaven.

Theon is a perfect reminder that Lucifer was once an angel, in this sense.

“Imagine all we could do. - he mumbles, faking to muse, pressing against Robb's cock – Of course, though, to avoid me screaming you would have to gag me.”

Robb cocks a brow, “You'd look breath-taking with your mouth open and filled while I fuck you.”

“I so would.”

Robb's eyes glare in anger and need all together, mixed, fuel to his hips, straining to contain and refrain from thrusting.

“Show me a photo of her.”

Theon seems caught back, he gulps, dry, but he doesn't back away.

“What for?”

“I need to.”

He shivers, his smirk vacillates, trembles, but he proceeds, “On one condition.”

Robb nods, sucking his lips. Their glances are nailed one on the other's and it hurts more to stay silent than to speak.

But every word is a stone towards a road they are afraid of taking.

“All art is immoral.”, Theon whispers.

Robb squints his eyes, “The preface to the Picture of Dorian Gray.”

Theon's eyes shine. He licks his lips, smiling slightly, sly.

“That one is: all art is quite useless. - his voice sounds sad, liquidly extinguished – And, of course, there is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book.”

Robb flinches, confused. He furrows his eyebrows.

Theon moves his knee away and kisses Robb's temples and the soft eyebrows, whispering into his ears, “Intentions. 1891.”

Robb stares at him, confused, his cock still hard, while Theon walks to the door, with a wicked smile, and winks.

“Tonight. At seven. - the dark pits of his eyes look hotter, as if darkness became the engulfing summer sea, ready to swallow him up – Don't be late.”

 

*

 

The pomegranate, red velvet of the curtains looks like a dream of blood and lust against Theon's pale, ivory skin.

And when Robb drives through him, fucking him wild, as if he needed to ram him open, Theon suffocates and muffles his moans against the wet cravat Robb has stuffed in his mouth.

His wrists are tied with Robb's tie instead, and Theon could free himself easily, but he loves Robb too much to trap him like that.

Robb slaps Theon's face, his cheeks, filled with now ruined silk, are reddened by the impact.

And Theon's eyes gleam with eager crave.

Games always turn wicked between them, and Robb wonders if it's because they're both cripples at heart. Or if they had just planted it all wrong.

But when he pounds into Theon and comes into him, one, two, three times, and stares at his perlaceous seed drip slowly down Theon's thighs, or cream around his hole, Robb loses any concept of redemption.

He stares at Theon's ring finger, thrusting so deep that Theon's eyes widen in bliss and pain, and he wets his gag; Robb knows he's screaming against it, but he can't care.

“I'll come so much and so deep inside you. - he roars, in a murmur, against Theon's ears – That you'll lose come out of your swollen hole for days, until your fucking wife will see it and realize she married a fucking whore.”

Theon shivers around him, clenches him inside, can't let him slip out.

And he craves more and more.

And Robb gives it, harder, until it hurts, after it hurts – because it feels too good, too, and Theon just spills more and more, delight thundering through his veins.

And Theon's sperm stains the chairs and the curtains, while outside the drums claim for the virgin to be sacrificed to a cruel need of spring and rebirth.

And she dies dancing.

And Theon closes his eyes, as if he’s fainted for an instant, and lets himself go and lean against Robb, panting, eyelids down, chest shaken, lips chapped.

And Robb clenches and clings onto him. He buries his head in the cave of Theon's neck, meeting his collarbones. His curls fall like a red shower over Theon's skin.

He sobs.

“Why did you have to marry?”

 

*

 

Spring washes away too. So does summer.

In autumn, Robb hates himself more than ever.

He wonders what kind of person can make one so addicted, like a drug, like a disgusting necessity. He knows this doesn't make sense and that it’s wrong.

He knows nothing of Kyra, except that she exists, but he loathes her for having what he wants, and he loathes himself for wanting it.

He knows nothing of Kyra, except that Theon doesn't love her – otherwise he wouldn’t cheat on her, that much is sure – but that doesn't mean he loves him, after all, and Robb is not sure if that doesn’t make it all worse.

But he loves Theon – he knows that because it comes up every time, after he has come into him just as simply and easily and purely as when he sees him smoking and rubbing his eyes over paperwork with his hair in a messy bun.

He promises to bury that love away.

But no grave seems deep enough to hide it.

It rises up and gets stuck in his throat, like a morsel too bitter and too slimy for him to swallow. 

But that changes little: in autumn Robb hates himself and loves Theon.

And he promises himself to stop every day and every day he finds himself a prisoner behind the bars of desire.

He tries to quit it, a thousand times.

But the weekends feel like death and dust in his mouth.

Every day, hour, minute without Theon feels tasteless and colourless and it heavies him like an anchor.

And time vanishes yet when he's alone.

Nothing holds importance.

It's heavy and empty all together and always.

Until Theon brings flames and pomegranates and madness.

His voice is the thrill of spring; and Robb is sacrificing his conscience, dancing to exhaustion.

 

*

 

Theon's taste heightens his senses and makes him drunk.

They’ve lost control, somewhere along the way, like an animal loses its prints on a ground constellated with fallen leaves, and the office got too small.

It shrunk around them like a hanging knot.

Robb has started needing Theon at midnight, when he would get hard just thinking about his lips around his cock. Theon has started craving Robb on Sundays, when after emptying himself in Kyra, he felt the outrageous tingling need of being filled.

And it was horrible and splendid and dirty and pure and sacrilegious and sacred.

They'd run to the public library, Theon slammed against bookshelves, hiding in the mathematics section, with Robb pounding inside him, Theon's fingers would crawl and hang onto books that would fall and he’d arch, moaning in discomfort and pleasure, when Robb would come inside him, biting his shoulder to suffocate his own sounds.

They'd park right outside the city, push down the backseats, make space, and Theon would welcome Robb's cock inside him, in the wet, black darkness, with rain caressing the windows, lamplights staining of orange and green the puddles and their bodies, Robb would groan and grunt, rutting inside Theon, and Theon would pull his face closer and kiss him, mixing their mouths, claiming his tongue, while their rhythms synchronized.

They'd rush on each other and gnaw and bite, scratch until blood spilled and their backs filled with wings of scars. Their craving couldn't be tamed by timetables.

But Theon's wedding ring started to burn, whether present or absent, whenever Theon's hand touches Robb's skin.

It hurts.

It hurts beyond what is possible.

It doesn’t matter whether the gold shines against the neon lights or if Theon’s skin is exposed and raw and covered in lube. That hand is never his. Theon is never his.

And Robb hates that.

But what can he do?

Theon is his superior, and he is married. And not out. And Robb doesn’t want him to suffer.

And yet.

He does, partly.

Out of anger, out of hunger.

Because Theon is not his and Robb wants him. Possessiveness has poisoned him and burnt his nerves, it has made him rougher in bed and harder in his words.

Possessiveness has bewitched him a fool and turned his brain reckless.

He would leave marks, he would suck his neck purple, he would bite harder and try to carve himself inside Theon's hole.

The fucked up part is Theon loves it.

He would arch and cream with any “I'll make you loose” or “Your pussy is taking the shape of my cock” and beg for more, for more thrusts, for more words, for more Robb.

He wants Theon to belong to him. Not to anyone else. 

And sometimes, when his thrusts get slower, his movements more erratic, right before he comes, or when they forget a condom, careless, in a foolish dance of eager crave for the other, of longing broken by bliss, Robb feels like Theon wants it too.

Which makes no sense.

It doesn't matter.

His heart is vandalized, claimed and filled.

Theon has marked him somewhere deeper than his soul. And it sticks to him like sugary sweat on summer days.

He caresses Theon's hair that night, while Theon rests against his shoulder. Outside the car, trees reach the sky, black on black, painted by the past storm and the future chill of the deepest part of night.

He hums, low, and Theon smiles, tenderly, his nose rubbing, nudging, against Robb's red stubble.

Robb's eyelids twitch, pained, in resentment and tenderness.

It burns and heals, yoke and balm.

“You don't love her.”

Theon's lips part and quiver, but he doesn't reply.

“If you loved her, she'd be enough.”

“Perhaps you're right. - he chuckles – But what does it change?”

Robb is not sure, he supposes it changes nothing, because Theon is not going to, in any way, get a divorce.

“Would I be enough?”, he asks, then, his voice hoarse and sour.

And in the rasping thunder of his hesitation, he finds himself too vulnerable.

And his love spills out of him like water from the cracks in a vase.

And Theon kisses the cracks and holds the water in his hands and lets it wash his face, as he smiles and, with lucid eyes, replies, “You are.”

Robb's lips tingle and hurt, as if bruised by knowing how little that changes.

He wants Theon to be his alone.

Theon kisses him gently on the jawline, sadness staining his skin too.

“It's just complicated.”

“Doesn't have to be. - Robb clenches his jaw and moves away – You make it so.”

Theon flinches, stung. He bites his bottom lip and scoffs.

“We can always stop, if it's so bad for you.”

“I can't stop and you perfectly know! - Robb shouts, slamming his hand on the wheel, punching it and gaining back a dull clunk, his nostrils flare up, the veins on his hands are hard and out and the corners of his lips wrinkle up – You perfectly fucking know, that's why you do the fuck you want.”

Theon's eyes widen and he smiles, bitter, grinning angrily.

“The fuck I want? Do you think I want to cheat on her?”

“Well, you get off.”

“You do too! But you don't stop moralizing about it. - Theon glances at Robb's cock and mocks – Maybe your sanctimonious pulpit can't resist the oppressive force of your boner, but then your mouth should probably take note and shut the fuck up.”

Robb shakes his head.

“Out of my car.”

Theon blinks. He shivers, he gulps down. “I- you don't mean it. - he looks out – I'm miles from anything.”

“Out of my car.”, Robb repeats, looking away, sucking his lips.

Theon shakes his head and opens the door, exiting.

Robb closes his eyes and clenches the stirring wheel, his knuckles white until it hurts, pins and needles riding his bones and echoing through his empty skin.

He can't.

He feels like he’s going to suffocate. He chokes on Theon's absence more than he ever did on his cock.

There is no peace without a piece of his presence.

He punches the car’s roof, before turning on the lights and exiting from the door.

“Come back. - a pause, the words are heavy like rain on petals, too fragile to hold the drops, he always thought he was a tree’s bark but Theon has made him weak and thin and full of love – _Please_.”

 

*

 

Robb knows Kyra will read when he sends Theon a text that can't be misunderstood.

Robb knows Kyra has read it and faced him, when Theon comes to his apartment at four am, with eyes red in tears from anger and frustration and lips twisted in disgust.

“Why did you do that?”

That Robb doesn't know.

He wants to say it was only the feeling of guilt biting his brain out, consuming it crumb by crumb, a red ant in his skull.

He wants to say it was out of the sense of right and wrong and that there was no selfishness staining his white armour, painted with pride.

He wants to say so much, but the truth comes and washes through him in waves of salt and regretful awareness.

A part of him was angry at Theon.

A part of him was angry at Kyra.

A part of him was angry at himself.

But all and each part of him loved Theon too much to share him, too much to see him return to her, to imagine him spend in her, to conceive him telling her “I love you”.

And Theon looks at him in disappointment and betrayal, but Robb can't regret what he’s done.

“Why did you do that?”, Theon asks again, angry, slamming the door behind himself.

Robb sucks his lips and looks away, unable of bearing to see Theon's glance, to stand it, to fight it back.

“The coward does it with a kiss …”, he whispers.

Theon's eyes widen, first in sheer anger, then in pure sorrow.

He shakes his head. He looks away, he forces himself too.

Robb continues, his heart on the verge of inflating and then turning into a balloon, emptied of all air and melted over a candle’s flame. “The brave man with a sword.”

Theon closes his eyes, he clamps his eyelids and he breathes in, trying to find the strength to leave Robb behind. But he can't.

Theon slaps him hard across the face, Robb lets him, then Theon's fingers run to Robb's lips, they press on his mouth, they squeeze his lips, they push through and fill his mouth.

Robb bites them, tasting them, tasting blood and heat and the fingertips Theon brands him with.

And Theon cries and shakes his head, before pressing his face against Robb, and their lips lock and meet and mix.

And their tongue search for each other, flames of desire.

Hunger runs in them, electric, anger thunderstruck in their roots.

And then comes pleasure.

Theon pushes Robb on the couch, and unbuttons his shirt, undoes his tie, staring directly at him, and gulping down eagerly the desire in his eyes – water on fire.

Robb drags Theon close by his hips, claims him. 

Their belts buckle, their cocks rub and frot, their sweats find each other again.

“I love you.”, Robb breathes, heavily, his hands running over Theon's back, pulling him close.

Theon closes his eyes and hides his face in Robb's chest, while jerking both of their freed erections.

He pants and grunts, “Me too.”

And Kyra may hate and curse both of them, and Robb's conscience will never be cleaned, but as absurd as it is, he's purified and ignited by every kiss.

Theon moves his hips, builds their rhythm, his hands wet with the precome that keeps spilling from both of them, Robb moans, throws his head back, grunts, bucks his hips, needing to feel Theon around himself.

And Theon lowers his mouth and takes both their cockheads in.

He can just get the heads in, as he bends, and the crown of pulled back foreskins caresses his swollen lips, but he sucks and licks, teases and torments. And Robb pushes, trying to fuck that mouth, enchanted and aroused at the sight.

Theon’s tongue is wide and soft and bliss is a white-hot shock through them.

Theon almost chokes, as Robb pushes and he rolls his eyes back, swallowing down more of him and just the head of his own needy dick, which he jacks off quickly, wanton and lewd, the sloppy, wet sounds of his own crave for relief mixes with his obscene moans from feeling Robb's heavy cock on his tongue.

Theon tastes himself and Robb too and their flavours melange together. Robb drips and spills on his tongue and inside his throat, and Theon comes right after with twitching desperation.

He shows Robb his tongue and the liquid moonlights of their semen, then he kisses Robb, pushes his tongue in the other's mouth, and they both claim both of themselves.

Come sticks and stretches and rolls on their tongues, and they exchange it, lustfully tasteless, filled, inebriated with their own, now allowed, indecency.

They both swallow it and their eyes meet, lost in each other again. And found, this time, finally.

And every next time it happens, they belong to each other.

And there's no shame anymore.

 


End file.
